The Rooms at 221B Baker Street
It was clear to me from a young age I could not accomplish all I wanted to with the gender assigned to me at birth. My father reportedly wept when my dear mother brandished a girl from the theatre at Chelmsford’s hospital. In my later years, I concluded that the wave of emotion was bitter disappointment. Of course, when my brother Harris appeared the following year, my father forgave my impudence for being born female and I was sent away to finishing school.
Looking out onto the hotel’s dining hall on the Strand, I pondered of my father and wondered what he would think of me now. I had not turned out the way he had longed for me to. There was no graceful, married lady here - the only things my mother and I shared were our fair hair and full lips.
The dining space was filled with couples in their morning attire. Ladies dressed in embroidered petticoats that were buttoned up to their chins to help them cope with the September weather. I shivered at the thought of being tied in one of the contraptions that were women’s corsets as I had been at school. Naturally, I loathed being sent away, and found such tasks as embroidery, fan-waving, and learning to keep house to be menial activities. I lived in books. I snuck myself into classes in biology, physics, and chemistry, and studied relentlessly.
The butlers had noted my usual morning lateness and had prepared me a table by the window. I was presented with a pot of tea and a jug of milk whilst my breakfast was prepared. My brother had written to me about how Americans had curious sugared treats for their morning meal. The thought of him brought about a pang in my chest as I realised how much I missed him.
My brother had indulged my curious, studious mind and brought me books from his college where he had been studying the medical sciences from a young age. We often spoke in jest about swapping roles – much to my father’s chagrin.
Father was determined to keep my brother in the family business of becoming a doctor like him. Everything was set and ready. I was to conclude my studies at a finishing school in Winchester, and my brother was to become a doctor.
However, the only thing dear Harris loathed more than my father was studying.
“My loveliest, loneliest sister,” he declared one morning as he came into my suite in our family house in Chelmsford. “How does a flower-like you thrive in the world of education?”
I had crossed my legs under my dress and had a physiology book open in my lap. My notes were fanned out all around me in the moleskin notebooks I kept in prim condition.
“One cannot be bored when there is so much to be learned,” I replied, gesturing for him to leave so I could enjoy the engagement of academia once more. “You should be joyous for you are blessed with the freedom of masculinity.”
Harris leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms; his green eyes were bright and full of mischief on his tanned face. Our father was out providing terror with every domestic visit on his round, no doubt. I shut the book. For I knew since we had the house to ourselves – a plot must be afoot.
That day my brother and I struck a deal. He would write to the finishing school on my father’s behalf – as he frequently kept the surgery’s correspondences and knew his hand – informing them of an illness that was preventing me to study there. I would instead fill my brother’s position at his school, posing as John Watson, his younger brother. With a neat forgery from my brother, complete with the assurance of my father’s continued donations to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital in London, I was all set.
My brother decided that, with his newfound freedom, he would go and visit our Aunt in New York. She was a flamboyant widow in need of an heir. Harris was confident that he would be able to win her over. After all, our mother’s sister had a soft spot for the “lonely lambs” of England.
My father’s declining health meant he no longer travelled and had nurses in residence as I started my practice in St Bartholomew’s. I learned quickly how to cover my female visage with stage makeup and male clothing. Both I found rather liberating – especially the absence of a corset.
My father passed away as I started at the University of London. I knew he thought me a disappointment thus the loss didn’t ail me as perhaps it should have. I did not attend the funeral either, despite paying for it. I’d made peace with his death long before it happened. My brother divided the inheritance among us from his new home in New York and I was blessed with considerable income to fund my studies. I lived a secret life in London as John – Johanna making an appearance only in the most private of evenings spent alone until I graduated in 1874.
I joined the Army as a result of some friends of mine signing up to offer their services to queen and country. However, I was injured on my first tour, struck with enteric fever, and was returned home. With my nerves shaken beyond imagination, my only desire was to do nothing but sleep.
I had taken up residence in a hotel on the Strand while I decided what my next move should be. I could return to my practice. Maybe I could travel? Perhaps London was not my place to be anymore? Truthfully, my fingers itched to be back with patients. But maybe my gifts had been retired too long and I might have lost my skills. The thought waned on my mind. Nothing seemed like the correct move for me anymore.
I found myself staring at the teapot. A familiar voice pulled me from the bleakness of my thoughts.
“Dear God, Watson, is that you?” came from the table opposite. I looked up and saw dear old Stamford, a friend of mine from St Bartholomew’s. I smiled widely. It never failed to amuse me that so many of my closest friends and allies all believed I was born a brother and not a sister.
“Stamford!” I exclaimed. He came over at once. “Goodness, Watson – thin as a reed. Are you well, man?” I gestured to the seat in front of me and he sat down, resting a mahogany topped cane on the arm of the seat. “Quite well,” I said, folding the broadsheet back up and resting it on the side of the table. “How are you fairing? I heard you moved up from being a dresser at the hospital,” I replied. I had lost weight since my time on the front, though it seemed the least of my worries. My companions all had jobs and a means of moving forward. Many spread out over fair England, some even residing further afield in the beauty of Wales or the hills of Scotland.
“Ah, the times have not been kind to men of our profession, Watson,” he said, a wary smile on his round face. His hair seemed to have been shrinking back to his ears as it did for men of a certain age. I was fortunate – baldness in women was not that common. He asked the serving gentleman for a pot of his own tea as my bacon, eggs, and porridge arrived. “I may have been promoted in my profession, but the days are long and tiresome, Watson.” He said with a sigh. I remembered him being distinctly smitten with the pastime of complaining.
I let my mind drift as he told me of the newfound woes of his blossoming career. I had no qualms with him, yet I found that my worries must’ve furrowed my brow. Stamford halted his tirade. Thankfully, he had not got onto the subject of his wife yet. A dear thing she was, too.
“Your countenance has fallen, John,” he remarked, looking at me with his close brown eyes and sticking out his chin. He rubbed his stubbled jaw where he kept a trimmed beard and a buoyant moustache. “Enough about me. Tell me what is bothering you so?”
I finished off my breakfast and shook my head briskly.
“Nothing is amiss, Stamford,” I replied. “Only worries that will melt once I have solved their problems.” I swept the broadsheet I had originally prepared to be my company off the table. “You are lucky to have crossed my path today,” I followed as he sipped his tea, “I shall not be staying here much longer.” Stamford swallowed as he placed the cup on the saucer once more. “I am looking for rooms in London – but I have not found much that is not by any means agreeable.”
Ever since returning from service I had wallowed in my rooms here on the Strand, living a comfortable existence on my eleven shillings a week, supplemented by the money I had remaining from my inheritance. However, I would need to be more frugal to continue to live with basic comforts.
“I know of a man,” Stamford said, resting his elbows on the table as he spoke animatedly. “He is a unique sort of fellow – a researcher... I believe. An acquaintance that I met at the hospital. He has found some rooms in Baker Street, but was looking for a gent to share the space with so he could afford it.”
I knew Baker Street to be a great central locale – close to the station and the surrounding amenities. It sounded perfect. My reply was instant.
“That sounds most aggregable,” I replied tapping the table with my palm, “I must meet this man at once.” The sudden arrangement for my day gave me a rush that had been long begotten by my system. Stamford regarded me strangely for a moment before nodding. I readied myself to leave by throwing my coat over my shoulders.
“Of course, of course,” he said finishing his tea and doing the same. “I must warn you,” he added talking with a lilted tone. “He is an odd sort of man.”
I shrugged my shoulders. The men I served beside in the army surely could be no stranger mix of weird and worn. “Perhaps I know him?” I proposed as he led the way to the door. “Tell me his name?” Stamford’s reply was quick. “Sherlock Holmes.”
Stamford led me, at once, to the familiar halls at Bartholomew’s hospital, his colleagues all regarded him with kindness and me with curiosity for it had been many years since I had served there. The familiar smell of bromine and rubbing alcohol brought back many memories of patched-up soldiers in the field hospital beside me.
“Does he work in the archives?” I asked as we walked down two flights of stairs. Stamford sighed.
“No, John,” he replied. “I daresay he will be in the morgue conducting another strange experiment.” The lights dipped and a glow of paraffin oil lamps lit the way between the doors of the morgue. My curiosity was piqued.
“Not a Victor Frankenstein, I hope?” Stamford loosed a laugh.
“I wouldn’t put it past him,” his voice echoed down the hall as we drew up at the familiar door of the morgue. Stamford rapped his fist twice against the door.
“In but quickly!” a stern voice called back. Stamford immediately pushed the door open wide. The smell was the first thing to hit me – it made my eyes sting. A mist of blackish-green filled the subterranean room. “Sulphur – Stamford!” he declared over from the other end of the morgue. Stamford immediately pulled out his handkerchief and pressed it against his nose. I did the same with mine.
The figure at the end of the morgue was remarkably tall. He had thrown his coat over one of the spare mortician tables, and I spotted a hat and cane hastily cast aside over another one. The sleeves of his white shirt were drawn up to their elbows and a great pair of black gloves covered his hands. His dark waistcoat was drawn around a slim waist from black corduroy breeches. The black bowtie he wore was askew.
“Yes, yes, yes!” the gentleman exclaimed. “I have got it!” Stamford fanned about to disperse the smoke. “Sherlock, what is this?” As the image around us grew clearer I spotted what remained of a body on a nearby table. The arm was singed black at the bone, the fingers blue with age. The rest of the body, however, was missing.
“Gunpowder!” Sherlock exclaimed. A dark woollen scarf muffled his voice as he had it tied around his mouth – for protection, no doubt. “I was testing the effectiveness of using it as a form of ignition to destroy a body. And it’s many forms.” He was speaking quite rapidly. If I didn’t concentrate, I would miss the words. “Most informative!” he declared, clapping his hands together. Stamford and I shared a look of confusion.
“Who have you brought to see me, Stamford?” he turned to us after a moment. The bright grey eyes on his face caught mine and creased in the corners. Sherlock Holmes pulled down the scarf covering his chin and a wide smile graced their lips. “Who might you be, sir? Friend or foe?”
Stamford took the handkerchief from his lips, tentatively sucked in air, and then bundled it back in his pocket. I lowered mine too – it tasted bitter, filled with a pungent burnt aroma. Neither of those things seemed to bother Mr Holmes.
“Mr Holmes, allow me to introduce my friend, Mr John Watson,” Stamford said, standing to the side. I outstretched a hand, and Holmes shook it firmly. He had an oval-shaped face with a sharp chin. Dark hair framed his pale skin. His moustache was trimmed, sideburns neat. Looking at him, he must’ve been quite the outsider to not have been married already. “He too is looking for lodging in London.”
“Ah, excellent, Stamford,” Sherlock exclaimed. “I’ve been having trouble finding someone suitable for a time now.” His eyes shone with a welcome happiness that I was not at all expecting. “Tell me, Doctor,” Sherlock began. “Do you have any troublesome habits that I should be aware of? Drinking? Gambling?”
“No, Sir,” I replied. “Only that I am a miserable git in the mornings and rise when I want to.” This made Stamford laugh heartily. The corner of Sherlock’s lips quirked. “What about yourself, Holmes?” I continued.
Sherlock pressed his lips together and considered for a moment. “I do smoke shag tobacco quite often,” he declared. “Would that bother you?” He seemed to be teasing me – or perhaps I was imagining it? I shook my head. “How about violin playing?” he added.
“That depends on the mastery of the player,” I replied, sticking my chin out. I would not be intimidated by this man. Sherlock tilted his head to the side.
“That will not be a problem, Doctor,” he replied, a little arrogantly.
“How did you know John was a doctor?” Stamford suddenly butted in. I had almost forgotten he was there during Holmes and Its exchange. “I never said.”
Sherlock gave us a humble smile then.
“My dear Stamford,” he said in a quick voice. “Look at the way this person stands.” He added, I suddenly became aware of many eyes on my being. “His coat is from Garibaldi’s in the market in Notting Hill – a well-to-do gentleman would be happy with such a coat. But this is an old one – suggesting that he is a well-off gentleman, but is out of practice of his trade,” Sherlock said. “His hands are not calloused enough for a physical trade such as carpentry or metalwork. He speaks with a north-country tinge too. Where no doubt a doctor would be more valued than a lawyer or a governor.”
When he finished, I found myself struck dumb by the assumptions Sherlock had made. He had barely shared a space with me for ten minutes and had concluded all this from a meeting as scarce as this. As Stamford exclaimed a cry of laughter and disbelief, my chest tightened. How much more could have this fellow gathered from his analysis?
I rejected the thought – no one had noticed thus far in however many years it had been. Surely, this odd-ball couldn’t have seen through me. I gave Sherlock my most confident smile.
“That was quite a few assumptions, Holmes,” I replied. His piercing grey eyes shone as he smiled. “That was spot on!” Stamford conceded beside me, clapping his hands at the marvel. “Holmes, you are a genius.” Sherlock brushed the compliment aside with a flick of his hand.
“Only a consulting detective,” Sherlock replied but there was a look of pride on his face. “Deductions are my trade, Watson,” he added, “I’ve been told I am rather good at them.”
“I don’t doubt it, sir,” I replied in a voice as light as I could muster. Sherlock appeared unfazed. “Shall we meet tomorrow at noon to view the rooms? I daresay you will find them quite satisfactory for your activities.”
“That sounds perfect.” He shook my hand again and we shared our farewells.
I could feel his grey eyes focused on the back of my head as we left.
Stamford and I shared the afternoon together in Hyde Park before the light of day drew to evening and he left me in the foyer at my hotel. Stamford had done little but distract me from my fraying nerves.
Sherlock seemed to be sharper than a razor blade – could I risk living with a person like him? My mind ran over the possible consequences and ramifications of being exposed. The life that I had worked so diligently to create could crumble around me.
Yet this Sherlock seemed to have created a name for himself as somewhat of an eccentric all on his own. Perhaps he wouldn’t be taken seriously. Stamford marvelled at his skills like he was a God of his own – but he was only one man. I resolved to go and view the rooms and make my own inspection when Sherlock and I were alone.
Baker Street was all a bustle when I arrived a little before noon, but 221B ostensibly sat a great deal away from the noise and general mayhem of the roads. As I approached the house, I was surprised to see Sherlock was there already, a pipe blowing clouds of smoke into the air. He drew it away from his lips and waved as I approached.
“I am glad to see my feeling about you was correct, Watson,” he said with a smile that I recognised with the same smugness from yesterday. I gave him a polite smile. “Another deduction, Holmes?” came my reply. He shook his head and lead the way.
“A guess,” he said as we ascended the stairs up to a dark wooden door. Sherlock rapped on the door twice, removing his cap. I did the same with my bowler. A short, plump older woman opened the door. She had curled dark hair and wore a simple afternoon dress in grey, with bishop sleeves and an apron tied around her midsection. She gave us both a wide smile.
“Mr Holmes! How pleasant it is to see you again,” she exclaimed as she let the pair of us in. She shook Sherlock’s hand first and then mine. I noticed the aged tinge of a former Glaswegian accent. “And you have brought a companion!”
“Mrs Hudson, your charm is ever resplendent,” Sherlock said, stepping aside. The house smelled like flowers and wax as if she had been burning lavender candles. I spotted a row of paintings on the wall that I didn’t recognize – perhaps done by her own hand. “I’ll let my esteemed colleague present himself.”
“Doctor John Watson, ma’am,” I replied. Her cheerful brown eyes shone. “A doctor,” she exclaimed. She led Sherlock and me up the stairs to the apartment above her own. I heard the jangle of keys. “I do hope you like the space – a doctor on the property could be very convenient, indeed.”
“Are you well, ma’am?” I asked, to which she and Sherlock laughed. I wondered how long the pair had known each other.
“My only sickness is age, sir,” she said as the door opened with a creak into a light room. “One no doctor can fix, I’m afraid.”
The apartment consisted of a living room leading into a kitchen, two bathrooms and two bedrooms of considerable size. The walls were papered with a dark poppy and bloom pattern on the walls of the living space. There were burgundy-coloured drapes and two high-backed green armchairs.
It was a very clean, well-furnished space – ideal for the pair of us. I could envision myself sitting close to the fire on a cold day with a book on my lap. It had a certain modern charm and a professional edge to it that made me understand why my new companion liked it so. Plus, Mrs Hudson seemed very agreeable too. My reservations for Holmes aside, I knew that this would a deal I could not afford to miss. I had missed the privacy of my own quarters in my own abode – surely this step would alleviate the illogical fears I had of discovery.
By the end of the day, the deal was complete. I took a taxi from the hotel with my belongings the following morning. Mrs Hudson informed me that Sherlock had called the telephone and reported that he would arrive tomorrow.
I made myself at home in the south bedroom facing the garden. Sherlock had wanted the one facing the road – no doubt it would have better sun. However, I knew I would prefer the tranquillity of the greenery outside, the sway of the flowers in the small patch of garden made for a peaceful viewing.
I arranged my collection of things around my new room. My books barely filled one of the shelves. I had a few of my brother’s letters kept in a locked box which I placed on my desk next to my old doctor’s notes. I had kept some other precious items locked away in storage – mainly to protect them from my mother. That evening, Baker Street was peaceful. For once it didn’t take me long to fall asleep.
The next morning, I awoke to the noise of violin music. My heart jumped into my throat as I got up. I only wore my cotton pyjamas and was glad that I had locked my door last night. I didn’t sleep with my fake moustache and beard on, nor did I bind my chest at night so that it lay flat like a man’s. It would be inconvenient to sleep with all my theatrical attire – and quite uncomfortable, I’d imagine – as it would move about as I slumbered. I now combed my hair and applied the stage makeup.
Opening the door, I saw the back of Sherlock Holmes poised with a mahogany violin, playing a beautiful morning tune. Of course, he played at a professional level.
“I wondered what time you would make it here, Holmes,” I said. He turned around. The morning light caught in their hair. It wasn’t combed neatly – thick, dark hair fell over their head. Those stunning grey eyes were set with a mischievous gleam.
“I do attempt to keep track of time,” Holmes said. “I just put the kettle on the stove. Tea?” he said. “Please.” I took a seat on the armchair closest to the window.
“How is it you enjoy rising late?” Holmes asked as he disappeared into the kitchen.
“I have no plans,” I replied. “Why should I not enjoy peace when it is granted to me?”
“I don’t suppose a charlatan such as yourself does have many plans these days?” Holmes’ voice rose above the whistle of the kettle. My heart stilled in my chest.
“You jest, Holmes though I fear I have not grasped it,” I replied. His footsteps returned quickly with a delicate cup and saucer.
“It is very hard for me,” he said slowly, placing the tea in front of me, “not to notice something.”
I took the saucer and sipped. I’d planned this many times in my mind already and had conjured forty-thousand lines to deal with such a scenario.
“I don’t know what you mean, Holmes.”
Sherlock sat opposite me.
“Don’t fret, Watson. You are safe here.” His voice softened before taking a long draw of his tea. I placed my cup down, crossing my arms.
“I should hope so,” I replied with a chuckle. We could laugh this whole ordeal off and then pray he never speaks of it again. “I’m afraid I truly don’t know what you mean, Holmes.”
Sherlock balanced the cup on his knee as he tilted his head to the left.
“It’s quite alright, miss. “I have no qualms with women.” He grinned as a faintness overtook me. My gaze fell to the carpeted floor and the pattern that seemed to be swimming around me. I was glad for being sat down.
“In fact, I think they are brilliant.” Sherlock declared. I raised my head again and watched as Sherlock peeled away a sideburn from his cheek, followed by a moustache and finally the facial hair around his eyebrows and chin. I recognised the soft backs of stage makeup and my breath caught in my throat as Sherlock Holmes dumped it all on the table between us.
She leaned back and rubbed the patches on her face where the fake hair had sat. Sighing, she ran her hands through her hair. Those piercing grey eyes shone with mischief as Sherlock propped her legs over the corner of the armchair and crossed them like a lazy feline.
“Apologises for the deception, dear Watson,” she said without any sincerity at all. “I couldn’t resist.”
Suddenly the stupor I had found myself in lifted. I clasped shut my jaw which had fallen during the spectacle, guiding my hands to my head. I had thought myself to be quite perceptive, yet Holmes had made a complete mockery of that.
“You’re a woman?” I managed to draw out, to which Holmes gestured to herself and then yawned. Had she been waiting for me to wake up?
“That is what biology would say,” she said with a quiet, pleasant smile as if she were sharing a private joke with herself. “But alas, my work must be done – and women scare men in this age. Especially those with minds of their own.”
How could I have overlooked it so easily? Sherlock went from a refined gentleman to a gentile woman in a blink. And she was beautiful as both. I shed the facial hair, putting it on the table next to hers. I felt my face flush – this was the first time in however many years it had been that another soul, besides myself and God, had seen me out of costume.
Those eyes seemed ever watchful. A nervousness fluttered in my chest like a butterfly taking flight.
“By George, you are a woman, aren’t you?” Sherlock said, teasing me again. It only made my cheeks burn more.
“As are you, Holmes. If I can even call you that.” I crossed my arms.
Holmes was remarkably unfazed by everything that had occurred. It seemed she had already thought through this entire scene. I envied that calmness. My mind was running faster than a steam engine and yet there she was, serene as a lake.
“As you should, as that is my name,” she announced, swinging her legs back round to the floor.
“Sherlock is a girl’s name?” I asked. To which she shook her shoulders.
“Certainly.” She remarked with certainty. “I daresay that John is not, Watson?”
I leaned back into my seat. A weight felt like it had been lifted from my chest; there was someone else like me. She was peculiar and strange, but she seemed like a friend – how odd. Perhaps this was why I regarded her so strangely before, maybe part of me knew. My worries seemed to have eased on her smile – her eyes, though still shining silver, made me relax. Like there was nothing to be fearful of. She had revealed herself first, after all. She was trusting me as much as I was trusting her.
I shook my head, “Watson is my family name. Johanna is my Christian name.”
Sherlock nodded.
“I thought as much,” she said, resuming her tea with as much ease as if we had just been discussing the weather. “When changing one’s identity, people tend to pick names similar to their own. I had guessed Johanna, Josephine, or maybe even Jocelyn.”
My own hands were shaking far too much to pick up my tea and join her.
“How do you know all this?” I pressed. “Since I have been John, no one had even guessed at my true identity.” There have been a few mishaps with the moustache, or sideburns maybe, in the early days before I bound my chest, but as I’d grown used to the daily application of my makeup, those mishaps had ceased.
Sherlock spoke incredulously. “Well, dear, those people were not me,” she said as if that explained everything. I gawped at her.
“You should take your chest binder off too, Watson,” Sherlock said with narrowed eyes. “I can’t imagine that it is comfortable.”
I laughed. I couldn’t fathom what I was hearing; my ears were ringing and it felt like I was about to explode.
“It’s like being in a corkscrew,” I told her. She grimaced.
“It is times like these that I thank my genetics for being as flat as a broadsheet,” she said.
“You didn’t answer my question. How did you guess?” I asked again. Sherlock rubbed her temples briefly before sighing – as if she were making me privy to some secret treasure.
“I didn’t guess, Watson,” she said. “Did Stamford tell you of my profession?”
I shook my head.
“I am a consulting detective,” she declared. “I solve puzzles, figure out scenes. Every now and then I help the mediocre fellows at Scotland Yard.” I could only stare at her. “I am able to make quick deductions about people that lead me to the truth about them – that way I can understand a scene more clearly.”
“A detective makes sense,” I replied. An investigator – no wonder I was so bridled.
“Consulting Detective,” Sherlock corrected me. I gave her a straight look. “Detective makes me think of Lestrade and Gibson at the Yard... Then it makes me feel sad.”
I scoffed at that as she smiled. Arrogance and confidence were embodied in her.
“I think I understand you more now,” I said to her, “yet you’re quite the odd one, Sherlock.” I took my cup from its saucer.
She raised her teacup to meet mine. “As are you, John.”
